


So Long to the Headstrong

by subchesters



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Anal Fingering, Comeplay, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panty Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can a small, innocuous item fray the ends of Aoba's nerves when there's no reason for it? It's not logical, he knows this, it's not anything he should be fretting about.</p><p>In the end, they're just soft, red panties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Long to the Headstrong

**Author's Note:**

> Really, this is just some self-indulgent panty!kink that I've been meaning to write. 
> 
> Self-beta'd, meaning all mistakes are mine, yo.

It’s an innocuous item that frazzles the ends of Aoba’s nerves the longer he thinks about it.

It’s that innocuous item that’s currently bunched in his hands; grip too tight for such a delicate item, fingers clenched in the satin-like texture.

Aoba stares down this pair of red panties in his hand, eyes locked on the frilly trimming of the waist, the gloss-like surface of them, and logically, he knows there’s nothing wrong with them, there’s nothing that that this piece of fabric can do to hurt him.

He’s been planning this for a while, he’s been going over every scenario that can possibly happen and go wrong and push him into a period of non-recovery from shame and embarrassment. Maybe he’s overeating, maybe he’s thinking too hard about this, maybe Aoba’s preparing himself for the worst to happen, or maybe it’s the combination of the first two things.

Heat laces through Aoba’s face, winding through his skin to remind him of his current predicament that he can’t shake the anxiety from, breathing through his nose quickly in short bursts, needing to calm down. He can do this, he’s got this, he’s in control of the situation, and he can walk away any time he pleases and leave this whole thing discarded.

However, it’s always going to be left where Aoba discards it, there to rot and leave a metaphor of a stench for Aoba to be reminded just exactly what he wanted to do. It’ll be there tomorrow, a day from then, next week, as long as it takes Aoba to forget, which is unlikely to be any time soon.

Psyching himself up has never really worked and Aoba is reminded of that as he clenches his hand around the panties again, ruffling the texture, almost as if it were a stress ball, but Aoba knows he’s not using it to relieve himself of pent-up anger.

Aoba unclenches his fingers, staring at his open palm, biting his bottom lip before lowering them down on Koujaku’s bed. He’s planned this and he will do this.

Hesitantly, Aoba reaches for his shirt, fingers stopping just before he touches the bottom of his shirt, fingers clenching in an effort to rid his nerves of apprehension before he gently grabs at his shirt. His face is on fire, heat clawing against his cheeks and digging his pores, all serving to force Aoba to not be able to keep his mind off what he’s doing, what he’s planning to do.

Aoba wishes to space out during this, at least to make the time fly by faster.

“You can do this, Aoba,” is a shaky whisper off Aoba’s tongue, not as strong as he needs it to be, “you can get through this, you can fucking do this.”

It doesn’t matter how many inspirational phrases he crams into the situation, Aoba can’t shake the unease. It’s so different from what he normally does, it’s not something Aoba indulges in at all, and frankly, it’s something he’d never think about doing. If it weren’t for an utterance from Koujaku, voice white-hot and heavy against Aoba’s neck while he had Aoba spread out, he wouldn’t be doing this, the idea wouldn’t have been planted inside his mind for weeks to grow roots and take hold.

Aoba’s got his shirt clenched in both hands, partially lifted from his stomach, and they’re just hovering there, shaking slightly, and Aoba steels a breath into needy lungs looking for relief and releases through his nose, and resumes lifting his shirt. He pulls it over his head, hair separated into layers as he feels his shirt slide over it.

It’s still an awfully weird reminder for him, not to feel very much when anything grazes against his hair. It’s pleasant, Aoba has to admit, and he’s reminded of Koujaku reaping the benefits of his hair’s dulled nerves and diluted sensitivity. There’s a ghost of a memory of touch through his hair as Koujaku’s fingers come to his mind, shifting through his hair, parting it, twisting around his fingers, and it’s all sorts of warmth coasting by through his veins.

It’s not the distraction Aoba’s looking for as he’s stopped doing anything to remember that feeling of heated fingers through his hair and down his neck to curve around to his jaw and settle, a grip that makes Aoba bring a hand up to touch his jaw, fingers gently pressing against where he can remember Koujaku’s hand being. Aoba sighs airily, bringing his hand away from his face to stare at his fingers, almost trying to imagine them as Koujaku’s, wanting to touch them back to his face.

He’d deny every movement and remembrance of each sensory memory if anyone ever found out.

It’s sappy, it’s honey-sweet pressed against his tongue, and Aoba can feel each spark of heat at the ends of his nerves from each remembrance, but he’s glad to welcome it to be rid of the anxiety still clinging greasily to his skin.

Aoba stares down at his jeans, to the panties, eye frittering back and forth, resisting imagining how he’d look in them. A breath in, exhaling in an effort to expunge any doubt, and Aoba begins to undo his belt. It sounds so loud, an echo of his belt sliding against the metal buckle, the sound of it sliding from his belt loops, and discarded on the floor to be forgotten about.

Aoba reaches for the button of his pants and has to breathe as the severity of what he’s doing collapses onto his mind to break it with the realization of everything he’s doing. He’s really doing this; he’s really going to put on women’s panties for Koujaku, he’s been planning to suck down his pride and do all of this for Koujaku. In the back corners of Aoba’s mind, he’s aware that it’s a little too late to be having revelations about this—he’s had all the time to ponder (panic) and think (fret) and turn (agonize) over every aspect and detail of what wearing panties is going to be like and what he’s doing with them.

Still, it doesn’t stop him from having them.

Aoba wants to back out, forget about it, leave it alone without any guilt—it’s not like Koujaku knows about it, it’s not like he’ll ever figure it out. He’ll come home without any thought or clue about what Aoba had been planning for a few weeks.

Life will be relatively the same.

“Goddammit, Seragaki,” harshly falls from his lips and Aoba tries self-encouragement again, words of, “it’s just a damn pair of panties, this isn’t like solving a calculus problem, man the fuck _up_ ,” but he’s reminded that each word is more easily said than done.

As aggressively as Aoba tries to repeat those words, it doesn’t work like he wants them to. A harsh sigh leaving his lips, Aoba begins to open his pants, hesitating before beginning to push them down his legs. He steps out of them, kicking them to the side. He’s hypersensitive to the temperature of the room, more so than he realizes, and each hair on his body stands to attention.

Aoba steadies himself, closing his eyes and yanks down his boxers in an effort to psyche himself up, not allowing himself to dwell any further.

It’s still rather futile.

Why does Aoba even bother?

Aoba steps out from his boxers and his eyes catch on them on the floor, eyes not leaving from that spot for a moment. With the same level of shaky confidence, he finally allows his eyes to rise, zeroing in on the spot where those red panties lay, very much aware of where they’re about to go next.

His feet feel rooted to the spot, his Aoba’s limbs calcify with the anxiety of knowing just exactly what he’s supposed to do next, and all at once, it releases, and he’s free, stumbling over his legs in an effort to push himself toward the foot of the bed where the panties are placed. Aoba rights himself when he’s at the foot of the bed, staring down these panties as though they were the ones with eyes, engaging him, taunting him.

It’s still ridiculous to add on these human qualities to this inanimate object but Aoba’s feeling intimidated and tense, he thinks it’s excusable.

Very aware of his naked form and growing trepidation about being nude in Koujaku’s room, of which Koujaku could walk in on at any time, and the amount of time eaten away by him standing there, Aoba finally picks up the pair of red panties. Aoba hasn’t done anything yet but he feels lewd, he feels like he’s depraved in the mind and unable to redeem himself after he goes through with this.

It’s still so fucking absurd to let a piece of clothing make him feel like this.

Aoba is on the verge of freaking out again, a litany of, _“oh, god, I’m doing this, I am really, really doing this,”_ parachuting around the inside of his skull as he raises the panties, slowly gripping the sides, bending over to his feet.  It feels like he’s watching all of this commence outside his body, staring in through a window pane, as if it’s not of his own actions. Time feels like thick tar dripping, slow but ever-present, but Aoba doesn’t know if he should consider it a blessing or a curse.

He steps into them, ever cognizant of each surface of skin they sit against, and with a breath, Aoba begins to ascend to his full height, pulling the panties upward, curling over his knees, until Aoba stands, and resting them around his hipbones.

He’s done it, he’s put on these pair of panties that he agonized over buying and fretting when having to take them to the cashier, he’s conquered this hurdle.

Only his pride and dignity had to suffer for this accomplishment.

Aoba looks down at himself, the stark contrast of red against his pale skin, the difference in texture, the smoothness compared to the coarse but sparse hair that peaks around the edges of the panties. He drags his hands against the front of them lightly, feeling the outline of his hipbones against them, very mindful of accidentally dragging his hands against his cock.

Aoba looks behind himself, looking down to get a good luck before remembering that Koujaku’s bathroom has a mirror. That idea makes him freeze, though, the very thought of walking around Koujaku’s house in a pair of satin-y panties for Koujaku to stumble upon to shoots heat through his face. Though there is a tenseness coiled around the bottom of his stomach at the idea of getting caught, no matter how much Aoba tries to suffocate it.

With an unnecessary caution, Aoba steps forward, mindful of the way the panties rub against his skin, slow strides toward the door of the bedroom. As though the older man could show up (absurd), Aoba looks around the hallways, both ways before sighing in relief, and begins to stride toward the bathroom.

When he’s in front of the mirror, he studies himself.

Aoba can see the way it’s contoured to his body. The shape gives him a more feminine look since they were designed for a feminine body type. Aoba doesn’t think the designers had any idea that their product would reach outside its targeted audience but Aoba doesn’t go looking into things like this, it’s enough embarrassment and realization of what he’s going to be perceived as if he does.

Specifically, if Koujaku somehow found out, he’d never live it down.

Aoba takes in the sight of the red panties wrapped around his pelvic area, the trimming around the edges, the shape and curve of the outline of his body and the way the panties accentuate them. In the midst of it all, Aoba wonders how Koujaku will see this.

And with that reminder, Aoba feels his stomach drop again, remembering exactly whom and why Aoba was choosing to do this. Aoba panics internally, breathing speeding up, unsure if Koujaku would even like any of this, if all of the effort Aoba went through would be all for naught. Each horrid scenario floods his mind, from Koujaku laughing at him to outright rejecting him for this activity.

A part of his brain tries to chime through the haze of panic he’s put himself in that he’s back to being irrational, that Koujaku would never reject him, but it’s hard with the his thoughts flooding his, leaving white noise in his ears and cotton growing in the back of his throat. The blue-haired male is very tempted to back out again, each possible wrong end bearing down on his already shaky self-confidence.

He’s come so far, should all of this be given up?

Logically, he knows acting like this will get him nowhere and cause him more stress but he can’t help it, and logic was never too helpful when he got into situations like this, brimming with self-doubt and second thoughts.

After a moment to gather himself, Aoba straightens up, lungs expanding with needed air to help calm himself. He steps out of the bathroom, looking for a clock, checking for how long it will be until Koujaku gets home.

It also allows him to know the allotted time in which he can fret and agonize over every small detail that hasn’t happened that can possibly go wrong.

He steels himself for a breath, wondering how he can present himself to Koujaku, knowing that when he was planning this, he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to know how to execute standing in front of Koujaku and presenting himself.

What was he gonna say without tripping all over his tongue?

 

 

\--

 

 

“Aoba, I’m back,” slips happily from Koujaku’s throat as he enters the apartment, toeing off his shoes, looking around the space of his living area for any signs of Aoba. Everything looks settled, not out of place, and Koujaku finds himself wandering through the apartment, vigilante of any sign of the younger male.

The space looks hardly occupied, let alone by two people, considering how clean and neat the place. It doesn’t look like Aoba’s been anywhere; the space doesn’t look as though he’s done anything in mind with it. Koujaku hums to himself, thinking of what Aoba could have done the entire day while he was at work.

Aoba said he had the day off and more than likely, it meant Aoba will sleep the day away until Koujaku comes back from work.

Koujaku enjoys coming home to see Aoba asleep in bed. There’s the absence of lingering guilt about watching Aoba sleep, that intrusive feeling that would press its nails into his stomach, when his feelings were unreciprocated and doubtful of himself, it’s refreshing, it’s a welcome feeling of lightness in Koujaku’s body, and Koujaku is now allowed to drink in the sight of Aoba at any time, without fear, without rejection and all those nasty emotions leaving slimy trails and buildups of negativity in his veins.

Making his way through the hallway, he tries again, Aoba’s name an inquiring tone from his throat, and there’s a thump on the floor, a muttered curse, and, “yeah, just—just a minute,” which stops Koujaku in the middle of the hallway, brows drawn together slightly, tilting his head a little.

Koujaku’s seen Aoba naked; it’s a regular sight for him, and one he’s more than happy to continue seeing it, so it’s always a wonder to him as to how Aoba can still hold onto embarrassment at being seen nude. There’s a lot of wonderment from Koujaku as to how and why Aoba functions and operates, a lot of it confusing, yet endearing. More than likely, Aoba would protest a lot of his thoughts, but Koujaku loves it anyways.

Koujaku stops at the door, waiting for Aoba’s confirmation to keep going. “Aoba,” he tries, “you don’t have to hide, it’s not anything I’ve not seen,” and as he expected, there’s an annoyed, “shut up, just wait,” and that spools a chuckle from his throat.

“It’s fine, Aoba, nothing to be ashamed of,” is toned as sympathetic as possible as Koujaku tries to soothe a balm over Aoba’s emotional state. Koujaku knows how much Aoba dislikes talk laced with words of any perceived perversion, and he knows how sensitive Aoba is to them, even after all this time, but the reaction that Aoba’s body flies into is just too cute for him to resist, and he knows he’s supposed to feel bad, he’s supposed to feel all kinds of guilty and retract all his words, but he can’t, not with Aoba’s reactions never not endearing him to the shorter male even more.

There isn’t a reply back and it lets Koujaku’s mind wonder to places, thinking about why Aoba needs a moment to present himself. He’s seen all various states Aoba’s been in, some more desirable and arousing than others, and it makes him wonder why Aoba’s nervous over it now.

“Okay, come in,” and that alerts Koujaku of this nervous timbre in Aoba’s voice, stark and contrasting to the smoothness of Aoba’s usual tone (he’s vigilante, he’s attentive, he’s focused, he should know the regular ins and outs of Aoba’s person) and he’s grabbing for the door, sliding it open with words of worry and sympathy rolling around his tongue for release until what he sees stops him dead, limbs hardening and solidifying.

His (and Aoba’s, what a wonderful add-on that’s always been to him) room is the same scene he’s come upon every day, there are no deviances, it’s the same sparse background and warm-colored scheme he’s used to. It’s not any different than any of the previous sequence of events that he’s come upon in the room, it’s all the same.

Except Aoba standing in the middle of the room, face drawn into a vibrant shade of red, extended down to his collarbones, head hunched into his shoulders, shifting nervously, and Koujaku’s attention is drawn to the bright red-colored panties that are wrapped around Aoba’s waist.

There’s a dead silence inside Koujaku’s mind, all sounds around him falls away into white noise left and the world around him loses saturation and the color falls away around Aoba until he’s the only vibrant piece in Koujaku’s black and white world.

The color of the panties Aoba wears look like a splattered piece of color across the pale skin it’s surrounded by, almost emphasized for the dark-haired male to draw his eyes across, and he watches Aoba shiver, like Koujaku’s eyes are a physical weight scraping down his body, pressing into him like Koujaku’s physically touching him. Koujaku’s eyes are drawn to the way Aoba’s hips are outlined, the cloth clinging to Aoba’s frame, outlining the svelteness of Aoba’s form.

For a moment, all awareness outside the room crumbles away into blackness until Aoba is the focus. His vision is tunneling horribly but Koujaku doesn’t think about it, doesn’t care about it. It’s not until Aoba coughs, a weak, “surprise?” all laced with nervousness and unease falling from his lips that snaps Koujaku out of whatever trance his mind was put into.

The name, “Aoba,” falls from the wasteland that has become Koujaku’s throat, surprising him like he’s been swallowing broken glass, and his voice reflects especially that. The gruffness seems to be something to spur Aoba on, his frame tense, ready to bolt.

“I, uh—I wanted to—,” and Aoba’s throat works around whatever it is that’s holding back, “do this for you and—,” and his voice cuts off and Koujaku can visibly see how hard Aoba is working to keep up the courage.

Aoba’s gonna hurt himself if he stresses any harder.

Koujaku can’t help but stare, his eyes carve down paths against Aoba’s frame, at the way the panties contour to his frame, the outline of Aoba’s hips, the bulge from his cock, and Koujaku just wants to touch, he wants to trace his fingers everywhere, he wants to touch and touch and touch and feel all of it.

Koujaku doesn’t hear very much after that, his body suddenly moving, coming toward Aoba’s which cuts Aoba’s voice. He stands in front of Aoba, staring down, forcing Aoba to look up at him, and Koujaku’s eyes take in it all. Aoba still has that deer in the headlights look, visibly struggling and Koujaku briefly thinks of all the courage it took for Aoba to pull this off, the amount of effort Aoba put forth.

He doesn’t quite catch what Aoba said, too busy reaching out a hand to trail it against Aoba’s stomach, a gentle caress down Aoba’s exposed stomach, light, barely there, as if Koujaku can’t believe it, can’t even think beyond the idea that this might not be real. Perhaps he’d tripped on his kimono and smashed his head into the pavement and he’s hallucinating and has a concussion, and he’s somewhere with his brain leaking from his ears and blood coating the inside his nostrils and on the pavement.

He could live with that happening to him just to see this image.

Maybe his brain is compensating him for the pain he’s gonna feel when he wakes up.

But there’s a larger task at hand, specifically the one that involves him touching Aoba’s stomach, fingers trailing down, rubbing against the surface of Aoba’s stomach, and that tremble Aoba’s frame gives.

“What—,” but Koujaku’s voice breaks off, trying again, “what got you to do this?” because he wants to know, god, he _wants_ (needs, desires, _craves_ ) to know. He wants to know everything, he _needs_ to know everything.

Aoba visibly is having difficulty, and Koujaku would be attentive and soothe Aoba’s nervousness, but there’s a rush of blood inside his skull and through his body that’s hard to think pass, too much but too little oxygen to get him to think straight. He just wants to touch, drag his palms down the exposed skin presented in front of him.

“I—wanted to surprise you with—… with this,” and Aoba’s breathy reply spurs him on, leaning down, both hands coming up, his restraint fading quickly, and his mouth comes close to Aoba’s neck, just hover, warm breath bouncing off the skin back onto Koujaku’s face. He’s getting hard quickly, arousal boiling through him, scraping down his spine to burrow into the spaces between his vertebrae.

He wants to bite down, imprint his teeth into Aoba’s skin, but he doesn’t. Instead, he noses at the skin, keeping it light, up the slope of Aoba’s neck into his hair, until his mouth hovers beside Aoba’s ear. Koujaku almost licks, almost bites down, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t allow himself to, goes against the undeniable urge to do so. His hands rest on Aoba’s hips, palms flat, thumbs pressing down lightly.

“Did you, now?” and it’s gruff, interwoven with thirst and gravel-like, and Koujaku breathes out, knows his breath only serves to make Aoba squirm in his arms. “Did you do this just for me?”

Aoba might have made an annoyed sound but Koujaku doesn’t distinguish anything outside of Aoba’s body and the feel of heated skin under his hands and fingers. He noses back down Aoba’s shoulder, dragging hot breath across his neck, over Aoba’s shoulders before giving in to lick at the skin. It’s a light one, placed against the slope of Aoba’s shoulder.

Aoba’s shudder is enough to tell him that Aoba is being affected.

“Y-yeah,” and there’s this pure shot arousal, thick and hot, injected in his veins, and he thinks of Aoba putting on the panties, dragging it across his skin, how Aoba must have looked taking off his clothes to put them on. He thinks a lot about it to the point where he’s not aware of his fingers tightening around Aoba’s hips, letting out a harsh sigh against Aoba’s neck, licking at the skin again.

Aoba trembles, goosebumps rippling across the skin Koujaku can see, and he pulls back, staring down at Aoba. One hand removes itself from Aoba’s hips, stretching out a finger to trail up Aoba’s stomach, check, and neck and curving under his jaw for Koujaku’s palm to wrap around. He leans in and watches Aoba’s eyes flutter but Koujaku doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t connect their lips, and only keeps a small distance between their mouths. Hot air flows between them, breaths mingling, and as much as Koujaku wants to kiss him, wants to eat away at Aoba’s breath, he doesn’t do it.

“Whatever made you come to this?” and it’s amazing that the darker-haired male can speak, let alone think that doesn’t come out in broken thoughts and phrases.

Aoba makes a protesting sound, “don’t—don’t wanna answer, don’t ask me that,” and ah, Aoba partially comes through the haze of the situation, enough so that Aoba turns his head away, and Koujaku can see the irritation starting to form. Koujaku takes the opportunity to nose at Aoba’s jaw, hand trailing from it for his tongue to come to the surface of the skin.

Aoba’s hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping, still nervous about the whole thing which makes Koujaku wonder just how of his element Aoba is.

“I think it’s cute, though, Aoba,” and Aoba makes an indignant noise again, face scrunching irritably through his obvious discomfort, moving his face away to glare at Koujaku, a retort at the end of his tongue when Koujaku’s hands are both on his waist, grip hardening, “and I also think it’s really arousing.”

With that, Koujaku picks Aoba up, bending down to get his hands behind Aoba’s thighs and around his back, ignoring the younger one’s yelp of surprise at the sudden movement. Koujaku takes Aoba to the bed, climbing on top and releasing Aoba from his arms.

Koujaku hovers over Aoba, hands placed around Koujaku’s head, Aoba’s thighs on either side of his as he crawls in between them, taking in everything that’s offered to him, almost as if he wants to sear this whole image into his mind, brand it to the back of his eyelids so it never disappears. Aoba squirms underneath him, obviously uncomfortable with the amount of attention Koujaku is giving him, a low, “stop staring at me like that,” as he attempts to turn his face into the pillow, trying to avoid Koujaku’s stare.

Koujaku’s rewarded with the sight of Aoba’s neck, his breath hitching, wanting to lean down and drag his tongue across the skin, across his jaw to curl around Aoba’s ear. He wants to suck the blood up to just under the surface of the skin, lavish his teeth across to darken and stain Aoba’s skin with it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Koujaku only smiles (smirks); the ever-present arousal blistering the inside of his body makes it harder for the older male to not do everything he wants to Aoba. He’s still attentive to Aoba’s emotional state, looking to soothe with, “why wouldn’t I look? You look really good,” which only serves to make Aoba hunch into himself, but Koujaku’s having none of it.

“Stop saying that.”

He’s leaning down, hands falling onto Aoba’s hips again, trailing upward toward his chest, all the while Koujaku leans down toward Aoba’s neck. He ghosts his breath over the arch, pressing his lips lightly, not enough to suck a bruise to the surface, only lingering there for anticipation. Aoba’s breathing has sped up, obviously waiting for Koujaku to press his teeth against his neck, to scrape them down against his skin but Koujaku won’t, he’s going to do something a little different.

“Why? It’s true,” he breathes against Aoba’s neck, craning his neck to gently brush against Aoba’s skin, trailing to his ear and a husk-like voice rumbling, “you do look really good,” and blowing against the shell of Aoba’s ear, his hands making circling motions against Aoba’s ribcage.

Before Aoba can say anything, Koujaku licks his ear, trails his tongue around the shell, down to bite at his earlobe. Aoba’s instant reaction is to squirm away, protesting how that tickles, but Koujaku knows Aoba enough by now to know he’s still embarrassed by sentimental affections, and it makes him all the more eager to murmur them against Aoba’s skin, spread them across the surface until Aoba has no choice but to absorb them.

Koujaku trails down to Aoba’s neck, tonguing at the skin, adding teeth occasionally here and there, listening for the blue-haired male’s small groans, knowing Aoba’s is biting on his lip to stifle them.

“Can’t believe you did this for me,” Koujaku speaks against Aoba’s skin, hands roaming over Aoba’s sides, ignoring the younger man’s twitching, feeling the shift of his body. Aoba groans again, in either protest of his words or because of what Koujaku is doing. The darker-haired man’s hair falls out of his face, grazing against Aoba’s chest as Koujaku moves downward, “don’t know what I did to deserve this,” and his tongue digs across Aoba’s collarbones, drags flat, wet trails against them, polishing off with gathering the skin to suck on, teeth closing in around the area.

Aoba’s thighs shake, he can feel them, in an effort to not thrust up his hips, and knowing Aoba is being affected. Koujaku smirks against the heated skin before trailing down Aoba’s chest, one hand coming up bring his thumb against one of Aoba’s nipples as his mouth closes in around the other. It’s a combination that makes Aoba jerk, a gasp breaking from his throat, and the brush of Aoba’s body against his own has Koujaku thinking that he’s very overdressed.

Koujaku lifts his head to drag his tongue across Aoba’s nipple, the tip of his tongue lingering, pressing against the hardening nub and closing his mouth again around it. Aoba’s hands settle on Koujaku’s hair, almost hesitating, as though he’s not sure about his grip.

Again, Koujaku pours, “I really love it, Aoba,” against the younger man’s body but the hands in his hair tighten, pulling him up to face Aoba, and an irritated, “quit saying things like that, hippo,” as Aoba bring his mouth to Koujaku’s. It’s probably Aoba’s only way to keep him quiet, to stop these sentimental things from Koujaku’s mouth and probably to quiet his own noises, but Koujaku happily obliges.

Koujaku runs his tongue along Aoba’s bottom lip, between the seam and Aoba opens under him, licking at his teeth to pull back. Aoba chases his mouth as Koujaku mouths at Aoba’s jaw, trailing his tongue around the skin before moving back to Aoba’s mouth. He pushes his tongue into Aoba’s mouth as the other male’s arms come up to his shoulder, gripping at his kimono.

He gets the idea and his hands withdraw from Aoba’s sides, pushing at the sleeves until the slide off his arms, undoing his neck accessory. Aoba’s fingers are impatient yet pausing, unsure in some ways, but Koujaku is more than happy to help him out.

He’s losing the ability to think about shedding his clothes because he wants to touch Aoba and he does, dragging his hands back down the smaller male’s chest, not breaking contact with Aoba’s mouth, and all the way down do his hands stop at Aoba’s panties. His thumbs rub into the groves of Aoba’s hips through the panties and slides one hand to rub against Aoba’s panty-covered dick.

This causes Aoba to break away and a muffled gasp to wedge from under his teeth, which Koujaku leans forward to eat away at it, swallowing it down with any other noises Aoba may make. His palm spreads flat against Aoba’s hardening cock, pressing the heel of his hand against it and rubbing circular motions. He can feel a small wet spot forming and he can’t help it, he has to look—he _needs_ to see how it looks.

He pulls back as Aoba’s mouth comes forward to catch up with his; looking down at the panties Aoba wears. He can see the bulge, the way the panties pull over Aoba’s dick, slowly stretching as Aoba gets more aroused. Koujaku drags his palm against the heated front; lightly gripping and raising his head back up to stare intently at Aoba’s face.

Aoba’s bottom lip is pulled in between his teeth, obviously trying to muffle his sounds. Koujaku moves forward, draws up one of his hands to press his thumb against Aoba’s bottom lip, pressing against where he can feel slight indents from Aoba’s bottom teeth, a breathy, “let me hear it,” all of which Aoba turns his head away, releasing his lips to utter, “Koujaku, don’t—,” but cuts off in a gasp when Koujaku presses his hand down harder on Aoba’s dick, knows there’s precum smearing along the inside of Aoba’s panties.

There’s an idea that streaks across his mind instead.

Moving forward, Koujaku places his mouth against Aoba’s neck again, trails his tongue along the slope of it, moving down to suck a bruise into his collarbone, and once again, heading down.

He gets to Aoba’s naval; dipping his tongue hands coming up to still Aoba’s twitching body, aware of the heat the younger male’s body is emitting. He dips his tongue forward into Aoba’s belly button and a burst of giggles comes from Aoba’s throat, hunching and trying to squirm away, a breathy laugh of, “Koujaku, stop that—it still tickles!” and the older male laughs before resuming again.

Aoba seems to have a clue about what Koujaku has in mind because his hips shift upward, as if expecting Koujaku to remove the panties to get his mouth on him, Koujaku presses Aoba’s hips back down, knowing Aoba is questioning.

Instead, Koujaku presses a kiss to the panties, right on top of Aoba’s cock, lingering there as if to test Aoba’s reaction. He hears an inhale of breath, and an unsure, “Koujaku, what—,” until Koujaku begins to mouth at Aoba’s cock through the panties.

He’s never done this, not even when he used to offer himself to the women he used to chase, and it’s all so surreal that it can’t be real, it can’t be happening, all of this is just some hallucination that’ll fade in mere moments. But Koujaku is going to make it good, he wants to make it an experience for Aoba, and he tries his best, continuing to mouth at Aoba’s dick.

Aoba’s protest dies before it reaches the tip of his tongue, flopping down on the bed. Koujaku’s arms wrap around Aoba’s thighs, hands soothing against them, pulling Aoba down until his bottom is resting against his shoulders and starts to lick at the panties. Aoba’s movements encourage him, pressing against him in aborted, frantic movements which causes Koujaku to look up, mouth pressed against the younger male’s arousal, watching as Aoba brings up a hand to cover his mouth.

His spit is getting the panties wet, and dragging the flat of his tongue upwards, in circles, and all around makes Aoba gasp, writhing in his grip, and whispers of his name as half-bitten off prayers Aoba can’t seem to figure out how to voice, or what’s the right way he can get them through his trembling lips. He wants to give Aoba more than a selection of non-linear performances, something more than the desperation it inspires, all of which will leave Aoba sobbing and gasping under his hands and to leave himself in Koujaku’s hands to nurse and take care of.

Koujaku’s hands move from Aoba’s thighs, pressing flat on top of Aoba’s panties, pressing them flat to Aoba’s hardened length as sucks on Aoba’s dick from the outside of the panties. Aoba sings a pleasant tune of desire from behind his hand as Koujaku drags his mouth down Aoba’s covered dick, feeling his spit wet the panties even more. Inside his head are the sounds of Aoba’s voice and the roar of blood through his veins and the incessant throb of arousal traveling through the synapses of his nerves.

He licks again, another trail of his tongue up Aoba’s dick, and he thinks he could make Aoba come like this; he could have Aoba lose himself inside these panties. He thinks about it, about Aoba making a mess of them, thinks of Aoba coming and soaking them, dirtying them, and it’s so appealing, it’s so tempting, but he’s got other things on his mind.

The older man does a harder lick up Aoba’s covered shaft before pressing a light kiss, feeling how wet the panties have gotten, watching how Aoba’s dick is straining against them, knowing Aoba must be needing release.

Koujaku knows he hasn’t taken off his pants, and maybe a part of the thrill is imagining what he has in mind, so he doesn’t remove them as much as he wants to feel all of Aoba’s skin against his own.

He releases his arms from around Aoba’s thighs, looking up at Aoba, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the wetness of his panties around his waist; the flush on his face, hand still over his mouth, and god, Koujaku wants to do so much. Koujaku places his lips against Aoba’s stomach, feeling it concave as he kisses it, trailing them up Aoba’s chest, taking the time to tilt his head sometimes to get in a few licks to the feverish skin, up to Aoba’s throat and until he gets to Aoba’s mouth.

Aoba is panting, trying to get himself together as Koujaku kisses him again, Aoba’s thighs clenching around him as Koujaku’s hand finds its way back to Aoba’s erection, rubbing his palm against it.

“Kouja—fuck, come _on_ ,” and he can’t help it but Koujaku wants to hear more, he wants to hear the rumble of Aoba’s voice shake and quiver and come tumbling down with the suppressed desire coursing through him.

“Tell me what you want, Aoba,” and Aoba makes an exasperated noise, “tell me what you need,” and his breath ghosts over Aoba’s neck. Aoba’s hips are jerking, looking for friction, for anything, something that can relieve the pressure in his groin.

“Don’t—,” a breathy whine muffled behind his hand, a scowl fitted into those words, “don’t make me,” and Koujaku’s hand continues to rub at him, but it’s not enough, his other free hand gripping at the blankets under him. Aoba looks at him from the side, hand still pressed against his mouth, eyes narrowing at Koujaku’s antics.

The darker-haired male decides to spare mercy on the other and instead, he gathers Aoba up in his arms, getting into a seated position, sliding Aoba into his lap, and Aoba nearly squawks in surprise at the tilting of his world. With Aoba in his lap, Koujaku wastes no time in getting his hands back onto Aoba’s body, hands trailing down his sides, and Aoba leans down to connect their mouths, arms coming up around his neck as Koujaku’s hands settle on Aoba’s ass.

His fingers kneed at the flesh under the panties, gripping, pulling, clenching, and Aoba’s groan is muffled, pressing himself closer to Koujaku’s form. Koujaku’s fingers slide up to the frill trimming of the panties, hovering before beginning to press under it, fingers resting on Aoba’s ass. The older male can feel the panties slide against him, over Aoba’s dick when he thrusts against Koujaku’s stomach, grinding his erection in the firm muscles of the older male.

Fingers clenching into the flesh, Koujaku moves them down again, sliding to the crease of Aoba’s ass, but he stops, pulling back as another thought congeals into his mind. He can hear Aoba’s muffled protest but stops as Koujaku places a hand back on top of his ass, curving over his ass. Instead, Koujaku presses his middle finger against Aoba’s hole through the panties, stroking, light caresses that has Aoba gasping, pulling back, and exposing his neck.

Koujaku takes the chance to bite at the presented skin, sinks his teeth into the flesh offered to him, and Aoba tries to protest, a weak, “Koujaku, you’re gonna leave a mark,” and that does something to his stomach. The thought of his marks all over Aoba, pressed against his neck, a mark of ownership and possession, and his finger presses harder against Aoba’s entrance through the panties, the hitch of Aoba’s breath audible.

Koujaku presses his middle finger against Aoba’s hole, harder, almost breaching all the while he rubs at the firm muscle of the blue-haired man’s ass. He swipes his finger downward, toward Aoba’s balls and back up and Koujaku cranes his neck upward, watching Aoba’s face, the spasms that follow each twitch of his muscles.

Koujaku presses harder, his finger slightly breaching and Aoba’s fingers press into his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Here is the repeated image of a fever-hot pleasure coursing through Aoba’s body, presenting this pretty canvas that Koujaku knows he can ruin with the touch of his fingers, and he can say it out loud with how much he enjoys Aoba like this and destroy everything out loud.

Aoba notices Koujaku staring at him, his breath choppy, “stop—staring,” which sparks a smile onto Koujaku’s face. Leaning his face into Aoba’s neck, another lick, a bite, a press of his tongue back to soothe that spot, and Koujaku smears across Aoba’s collarbone, “but I love seeing you this way, it’s sexy,” and that’s done it, it’s gotten an irritated huff of air.

“Why do you have to say things like that?”

“Like what?” and still licking at Aoba’s neck.

“That.”

“And what’s ‘that’?”

Aoba doesn’t answer, just settles on an exasperated noise before and pushes his hands through Koujaku’s hair to mute anything else and presses his mouth back to Koujaku’s. He lets Aoba have it, lets him do anything, and continues to stroke Aoba’s hole through his panties.

Koujaku’s hips shift upward, meeting with Aoba’s. The drag of friction between them is good, it’s a kindling feeling, but it’s not enough, not with the way Aoba’s movements get more desperate, seeking more heat, a better feeling to get off on. Instead, Koujaku removes one of his hands to curve around his hip to the front of his panties, sure to press his fingers to indent in Aoba’s fever-pitched skin to push into the panties, grasping at Aoba’s dick.

Aoba’s fingers tighten in his hair, a roughened inhale of air through his mouth as he presses his mouth into Koujaku’s shoulder, trying to muffle all sounds that wedge out from between the spaces of his gritted teeth, but Koujaku won’t have any of that, twisting his hand, thumb pressing into the slit, flicking his thumb upward the rub the pad across the head of Aoba’s dick.  Aoba nearly hunches into himself, his now-shoulder length hair pilling forward.

“Kouja—Kou—,” are little murmurs pressed into Koujaku’s skin, like Aoba’s way to keep himself from speaking everything aloud that he’s trying to desperately clamp down on. Koujaku only presses two fingers against Aoba’s hole through his panties, rubbing up, down, around, pressing in to retreat while he strokes Aoba’s cock, a rhythm that’s almost completely off, not synchronized with each other but it’s enough for Aoba, each bitten off groan or curse that smears along Koujaku’s skin becoming more frantic, the sound increases, the time in between each getting shorter.

Aoba pushes against the older man’s palm, seeking more friction and trying to get Koujaku to press harder against his opening through the panties. However, Koujaku removes his fingers, curling them around Aoba’s thigh, upward and to thrust his fingers underneath the panties, curving up to touch against Aoba’s hole again but he stops, feeling a slickness already there.

Aoba seems to have enough awareness to know Koujaku’s fingers are touching against his opening, turning his head against Koujaku’s shoulder, “I, uh, I did it myself,” a shaky moan, rough pants, “so you d-don’t have to—… y’know,” and Koujaku can’t help the intake of breath that quickly expands his lungs until they can’t anymore.

“Aoba, you’re so—,” and so it seems Aoba isn’t the only one having trouble controlling his breathing, but Aoba’s mouth finds his again, smearing, “whatever—ngh—you’re gonna say, don’t—don’t say it,” across Koujaku's mouth before his tongue moves to slide against Koujaku’s, pressing against Koujaku’s mouth as one of Koujaku’s fingers moves against the slickness of Aoba’s hole. His finger swipes against it, an already easy glide accompanied because of it and Koujaku presses his finger against it, not enough to push in, just enough to put pressure on it.

Aoba’s squirming on his lap, obviously wanting Koujaku to push in if the wriggle if his hips say anything. Koujaku removes his hand from Aoba’s cock, retreating from the panties to his own pants. Aoba’s protests fizzle out on his tongue when he looks down, hands moving away from his hair to help Koujaku. He only plans unbutton them, pushes them down just enough to get his own cock out.

With another thought slipping into his conscious, he uses his other hand already inside of Aoba’s panties to push him forward, forcing Aoba to settle more on his lap, pushing his hand inside again, grabbing at Aoba dick, removing his other hand (Aoba objects, it’s expected) to grasp at his own, pressing Aoba even closer to use one hand to gather both his and Aoba’s dicks in one hand, only separated by the increasingly messy panties.

It feels different, thrusting against Aoba through the thin but smooth texture, the way it drags across the heated flesh, the outline Koujaku can feel it taking shape pressed against Aoba’s dick. He moves his hips upward, pressing against Aoba’s, hand tightening around them, and begins to fuck against his hand and Aoba’s own arousal, the drag and press of it good and smooth and slick while the older male places his hand back inside the panties to play with Aoba’s hole again.

Aoba’s trembling, shaking above him; and it must be torture, and it must be frustrating for Koujaku to nearly get him off to only stop. It’s one of his favorite things, to watch the blue-haired man become so needy, so desperate, to watch the frustration and neediness build until Aoba breaks and shatters into Koujaku’s hands with gasps and pleas edging on begging. It’s when Aoba needs Koujaku at his most desperate, sweat-drenched hour; it’s when Aoba falls down into the sea of ever-expanding blackness for Koujaku to rescue him and sail into oblivion with Koujaku’s guidance.

It’s one of his most favorite versions of Aoba.

He sinks in one finger to the first knuckle but doesn’t go any farther, letting it linger, and Aoba pulls back, a throaty, “Koujaku, come on, _please_ ,” as he huffs again. The panties steadily get wetter, more so than when Koujaku mouthed against them, and the slide's good, it’s burning through him and Aoba to leave them in a wasteland-like state. Koujaku isn’t all the way sure about pressing his finger in completely, no matter how much time Aoba spent preparing himself (what a thought that is and how much it inspires inside his imagination).

Koujaku still wants to be sure but knows he’ll have to take away a hand. He settles for breaking away from Aoba’s mouth, leaning forward to once again meet Aoba’s neck with his teeth as he withdraws one of his hands, pushing his hand under the pillow to draw out a half-used bottle of lube. It’s cliché, he knows this, but it’s convenient to keep lube in places where he doesn’t have to travel far or break away from Aoba for long.

There’s a sigh of disappointment with the disappearance of Koujaku’s hand but he makes a soothing noise, thrusting against Aoba, reminding him of the hand that’s still around him, pressing him to Koujaku’s dick. With lube coating his finger, Koujaku pushes back inside the panties, finger stroking over the top of Aoba’s ass, trailing his finger down, smearing lube around while Aoba has minute trembles wracking his smaller frame.

Koujaku thinks it would be easier to remove the panties, would be able to move his hand around better but he likes this, the lewdness of it all, it feels much more daring than what they regularly do. Koujaku presses the pad of his finger against Aoba’s opening, it giving way a little but not enough to let him in.

“C’mon, Kou—just,” turns almost into a whine in the back of the younger male’s throat, knowing Aoba is trying to fight against his more baser urges, still embarrassed through all of his actions. It’s cute, it’s adorable, it’s all the sugary-sweet nonsense he wants to spew against Aoba’s ear and listen to him groan and scoff and protest, it’s almost an unpredictable urge he wants to give in to. He doesn’t, sparing Aoba the fluster he’d feel whispering those against his ears.

Again, Koujaku swipes his fingers down again, slow, deliberate, stopping to press down on Aoba’s hole again. It’s so frustrating to Aoba; visibly becoming more unsatisfied because of the darker-haired male’s teasing actions. Koujaku only huffs a laugh, feeling his breath echo off Aoba’s skin, thrusts up harder against Aoba as he sinks his finger in, just to the first knuckle, stilling his hand.

Aoba presses back, trying to get the older man’s finger deeper, needing it, practically begging for it, and doing all he can to stop the incessant noises from breaking past his lips all at the same time. It must be a tiring thing for Aoba, to continuously try to keep himself in check but Koujaku obliges, more than happy to, and pushes into the second knuckle, pulling out to press back inside, still stopping at the second knuckle.

Aoba’s near petulant, “you don’t have to do—that,” like Koujaku should have a clue about what Aoba’s talking about—he does, he knows what Aoba is alluding to, but it makes him smile with how Aoba tries to avoid saying it while saying it. It’s an asshole thing (for Aoba) to do it but he can’t help it, Koujaku gives in with, “doing what, Aoba?” emphasizing it with a sharp thrust of his finger, a jolt of his hips into Aoba’s, grinding his dick against Aoba’s through the panties.

“Shit,” Aoba mutters, fingers indenting into Koujaku’s shoulders, trying to gather his bearings before speaking, voice trembling, “you know what I mean,” and a scowl is forming on Aoba’s face but disappears when Koujaku pushes his finger in, sharp and short thrusts of his finger nearly derailing his already poor self-control.

“That’s a little vague, Aoba,” Koujaku pants out, before his mouth finds Aoba’s neck again, licking at the already lightly bruises skin, blowing warm air around the area, “I need a little more than that to go on,” and sliding his tongue up the arch of Aoba’s neck, polishing with a light bite to the skin.

“Ngh,” is all Aoba can retort with, breathing choppy, too fast but too slow, but Koujaku takes pity and buries his finger all the way inside and Aoba’s voice breaks, head falling between his shoulders. Koujaku takes the time to speed his hand up, knowing he’s just pushing them both closer but stops abruptly, disappointment at being cut off from his orgasm rocketing up his spine, a choked noise lunging from Aoba’s own mouth. To stop the temptation from wanting to come, Koujaku unlaces his hand from around his and Aoba’s cocks, already missing the feeling grinding against Aoba’s own dick through the panties.

He makes a mental note to do this again sometime.

Koujaku focuses his attention on opening Aoba up even more, his now free hand rubbing against Aoba’s thigh, caressing down, rubbing soothing circles into the skin as he draws it back, around Aoba’s thigh, toward Aoba’s ass and under the panties to join his other hand. He kneads against the skin, pulling on one of Aoba’s cheeks all the while he thrusts his finger in. Aoba continues to move in his lap, face once again hiding in the crook of Koujaku’s neck, tongue coming out to lick at the skin.

Koujaku slides in another finger with the one already inside Aoba, finding it to be loosened already, remembering when Aoba said he’d prepped himself earlier in not so many words and partially vague. It doesn’t matter if Aoba’s already done this (he thinks about it, Aoba trailing his fingers down, pressing his own fingers inside and that’s something he wants to see, wants to watch. Maybe Aoba would let him one day), Koujaku is going to be gentle, he wants to be thorough with the purpose to take Aoba apart.

It’s an easy glide, the way his fingers move inside Aoba, can tell Aoba used more than enough lube but Koujaku isn’t going to take any chance.

His hand removes from Aoba’s ass, reaching for the temporarily-discarded lube while continuing to swirl his fingers, expanding them, twisting his wrist, curling them, doing all sorts of movements that he knows from Aoba’s bodily reactions, the short bursts from his throat, rubbed raw with sandpaper and too much desire, and closes his mouth around Aoba’s shoulder, scraping his teeth along the skin.

Aoba pulls back and as he does, Koujaku give a sharp, sudden jerk of his fingers, pressing against Aoba’s prostate, and a loud, unforeseen gasp tears through Aoba’s throat and out his mouth before he can stop it. Koujaku grins, doing it again before pressing his fingers down, a harsh but short stab of his fingers against that spot, listening to the guttural, cut-off breaths of air emitting from Aoba’s throat.

Koujaku can feel Aoba’s dick press against his stomach, through the panties, trying to get friction, whether Aoba is aware of it or not. The slide of panties against Koujaku’s stomach muscles makes a surreal feeling, contrasting against the hardness of the blue-haired male’s dick, the heat he can feel, the complete wetness that clings to the fabric.

Koujaku repeats the movements of his fingers, knowing he’s riling Aoba up, intently watching Aoba’s face until Aoba can sense it, eyes opening, and a near pathetic excuse for a glower forms on his features, but it’s like he can’t figure out the words to say, he can’t figure out how to voice his disdain for Koujaku staring, not with the way Koujaku’s long fingers thrust inside him, rubbing against the inside in all the best ways.

“I’m gonna—I’m—,” and that’s Koujaku’s cue, abruptly pulling out his fingers, the tightening of Aoba’s thighs against his waist telling him that Aoba’s body is not happy to be denied orgasm again.

While Aoba recovers from another aborted climax, Koujaku takes the moment to reach for the lube again, using both hands this time to lube himself up. He does a short intake of breath when he touches himself, very aware of how much he wants release.

Aoba seems to have gotten himself together and moves his hands away, inching down toward his hips to remove the panties but Koujaku stops him, a low, “no, just—just leave them on,” as Aoba’s brows draw together, questioning, until one of Koujaku’s hands move toward his panties and pulls them to the side, still lubed fingers touching against Aoba’s skin, against his slickened opening.

“Are you sure about—,” severs from Aoba’s tongue when Koujaku presses the head of his dick against Aoba’s opening, his eyes widening, as one of his hands reach up to pull Aoba down. He stops Aoba, though, grasping his dick to rub the head against the opening, pressing but retreating.

Koujaku’s name falls from Aoba’s lips in a mixture of more annoyance and desperation, and sure, it’s testing the limits the tattooed man has, it’s pushing all of his self-restraint, but he needs Aoba to say it, he wants him to say it.

“What?” comes spiraling out with desire and barely-restrained gruffness, “what is it, Aoba?” and emphasizes it with another brief press of the head against Aoba’s hole.

“Just do it,” and isn’t that more than Koujaku expected Aoba to say.

“Do what?”

“Just—,” Aoba wriggles his hips, trying to bear down on Koujaku’s dick.

“’Just' what?” Koujaku need to give just a little more persuasion, just a little bit of a thrust, barely breaching Aoba.

A sound rumbles in Aoba’s mouth, like he’s chewing on it to stop himself from answering, but with a thrust from Koujaku, pushing at his hole again, Aoba breaks, collapses into pieces of his former self and utters, haltingly, “please, just—just fuck me,” and doesn’t that do wonderful things to Koujaku’s stomach and dick.

Koujaku obliges, content to have gotten this out, and begins to lower Aoba, making sure to keep the panties pushed to the side. Each slide of Aoba’s body encasing his own arousal sends white-hot heat slamming against the walls of his veins, clawing into the spaces between his joins, all of it trying to pool into his stomach.

Aoba’s still trying to muffle himself, teeth gritted, a defiant action to stop himself from losing it. Koujaku’s breathing trembles and shakes and vibrates in an attempt to escape from his ribcage. The slick hotness of Aoba’s heat makes him react by his fingers clenching into Aoba’s hips, barely aware of the finger-shaped bruises that will be there under the pressure.

Aoba’s fully seated in his lap, Koujaku’s cock buried in Aoba’s body, the smaller man contracting around him, shaking, practically falling apart at the seams. Aoba’s face finds his neck again, hot air in choppy bursts from his mouth, a small, “I need—Koujaku, I need,” and unable to say anymore because Koujaku gets it.

However, Koujaku can’t help himself and removes a hand from around Aoba’s hip, and drags it across heated, feverish skin until he reaches the place where he and Aoba are joined. Aoba jerks in his lap, a sharp intake of breath as Koujaku pushes a finger around Aoba’s stretched hole, feeling it against his dick.

“That’s so,” Aoba begins, trying to speak, as if to protest, but he can’t bring himself to talk, not when he’s so full of Koujaku, but he’s moving, trying to get Koujaku to move.

Koujaku starts slowly, slowly pushing his hips up, feeling the slide of Aoba’s body against his dick, gripping at him from all sides. It’s still a marvel, that he and Aoba do this, that he’s allowed to breach past into the most intimate places the younger male has to offer, and each time it never wears off. Koujaku presses his face back to Aoba’s neck, not kissing, not making contact, just close enough to breathe, puff his breath over the sensitized skin.

Aoba bears down a little quicker, hitched moan as he takes more of Koujaku faster, clenching up which in turn, releases a groan from Koujaku, hands coming back to around Aoba’s hips, needing a grip, some kind of support to keep himself from flying off the handle and losing complete control.

Aoba pushes into Koujaku’s grip, laying his forehead against Koujaku’s shoulder arms coming up around Koujaku’s shoulders, gripping before he tries to move faster. Aoba’s body urges Koujaku on, the heat and wet suction building an urge in him to go faster but he doesn’t, he won’t, not until Aoba is more comfortable but he’s losing that ability fast, it’s nearing the ends of its rope.

Koujaku raises one arm, wrapping it around Aoba’s chest, bringing Aoba down a little harder in time with his thrusts, the increased rate of Aoba’s pants telling him it’s good, it’s perfect, and Koujaku tries a faster pace. Aoba’s thighs tremble around him, his whole body is shaking, and the older male is aware of the hardness pressed against his stomach, knowing Aoba is probably more than desperate for release.

Aoba’s fingers turn to claws, indenting into where they touch his skin, nails biting into the surface—there will be marks there with the harsh way they don’t let up. They move across his back, across the tattoos placed there, and he thinks about Aoba’s marks there, an unconscious possessive action Aoba isn’t even aware he’s doing, and Koujaku loves it, he wants it even more. His hips shift upward faster, pelvis slapping loudly against Aoba’s own, jolting the other man, mouth opening against the darker-haired male’s shoulder, hot hair ghosting passed.

Koujaku’s name falls in low utterances, his pants and moans more audible but still not in enough frequency as Koujaku would like. The arm that’s not wrapped around Aoba is back at Aoba’s ass, feeling against the tossed aside panties, trailing a finger down the crease of Aoba’s ass, stopping just above where Koujaku fucks Aoba. It stays there, lingering, touching, a reassurance of what Koujaku is doing to Aoba, and the touch has Aoba moving in his arms, clenching his arms around him tighter.

Instead of Aoba protesting it, he pushes back as if he wants more of it. Koujaku moves his finger down farther, two joining instead of one, and touches the edge of Aoba’s stretched hole, feeling the touch against his dick, and he rubs his fingers against the stretched skin, alternating with circular motions and down-up strokes, just marveling at the way they’re joined together.

Koujaku can feel the tensing of his muscles, knows he’s about to hit the wall fast, and with the way Aoba is starting to frantically drive himself down on the older male’s dick, the desperate noises, he knows it’s about to tumble down into oblivion. Instead, Koujaku takes his hand away from where they’re joined, pushing it between them and grasping at Aoba’s chin to pull him away from the crook of his neck to lock their mouths together.

It’s sloppy, spit-slick, there’s no real rhythm or finesse, only them trying to eat at the other, swallow down the other’s moans, starving for them, and it’s just a mess but neither of them mind. Koujaku traces his tongue against Aoba’s teeth, between his lips and all around. Aoba removes his arms from around Koujaku’s shoulder to grasp at Koujaku’s head, gripping his hair, fingers clenching and pressing his and Koujaku’s mouths together harder.

Their teeth click together, tongues catching against the other, warm breath skittering over every surface when they pull apart to breathe. Hot panting, ragged gasps with too much need for air, all of it fills the room accompanied with the squeaking of the bed. Koujaku’s legs are starting to strain from their position but he can handle it, he can think about it later.

Aoba pulls back but not too far, forehead placed against the older male’s, lips a small distance away, just breathing in Koujaku’s air, hands still clutched in Koujaku’s hair. The cadence of their movements is steadily falling more apart into an unrecognizable movement, Koujaku’s arms having moved down to Aoba’s waist, hands grasping the blue-haired boy’s for purchase, to keep himself grounded, to somehow keep closer to Aoba than how they’re currently joined.

“I’m gonna—uhn, I—,” sounds desperate, half-groaned and Koujaku knows it’s almost time.

With a sudden gripping of Aoba’s waist harder, he moves forward, pinning Aoba’s back to the bed, Aoba making a startled noise at the sudden switch of positions. Koujaku grabs at one of Aoba’s things, lifting it up, positioning him until Koujaku can just drive forwards, hard, faster than what he could have achieved with the previous position.

Aoba’s back is sliding against the bed with every push Koujaku gives him, leaning down to once again bite at Aoba’s neck, sucking more blood just under the surface of Aoba’s neck, wanting to see them pressed like petals against that pale-colored skin, wants to watch Aoba’s skin turn discolored with these bruises sprouting, and this possessive burn searing against his skin, nearly splits his skin with too much buildup of desire under the surface, but he doesn’t have it any other way.

Koujaku’s hand leaves Aoba’s thigh and in response, Aoba raises them to lock his ankles around Koujaku’s back as the older man grabs one of his hands, interconnecting their fingers together to pin it to the bed over Aoba’s head, pressing down almost harshly against the blanket, grip solid and steady. He reaches for Aoba’s dick, still covered by the thoroughly ruined panties but instead of thrusting his hand inside, he places his hand over the top, where Aoba’s cock strains, rubbing through, cupping his hand around the shape. He wants to watch Aoba come in them, make a mess of them, soak them with cum, and it only makes him gasp.

“Kou—you—,” and oh, right, he realizes he said that out loud.

It doesn’t matter, he’s close, and Aoba’s close if all the squeezing of Koujaku’s hand is any indication. Koujaku pushes in harder, faster, practically fucking Aoba into the bed but Aoba’s thighs only tighten around him harder. He’s rubbing at Aoba’s dick through the panties, and Aoba’s voice is about to shatter, and Koujaku’s voice gruffly whispers, “let—let me hear you,” and isn’t this an inconvenient time for Aoba’s self-control.

“No, don’t—,” breaks in a moan as Koujaku positions himself again, aimed straight at his prostate, Aoba’s back arching, hand griping at the sheets under him, trying to turn his head away. Koujaku knows at this rate, they won’t last another minute, they might even make a record of thirty more seconds, but Koujaku puts everything he has behind each thrust.

“Aoba, nothing—ngh—to be ashamed of. I love your voice,” and it’s really all he can get out without his tongue twisting over the moans and trying to form coherent words at the same time. Each thrust is hard, unforgiving, and Koujaku can feel his balls draw up, the tightening in his stomach, and hand gripping Aoba just a little harder, and finally, Aoba gives in, which is better late than never, as the point of no return is about to consume them in less than twenty seconds.

Aoba’s voice snaps and bends on each moan, arms leaving the bed to wrap around Koujaku’s neck and hauling Koujaku downward to kiss him, hands linked together, fingers nearly cutting each other’s blood flow as Koujaku shoves forward hard, once, twice, three time, and pressing his hand down on Aoba’s dick with a twist of his hand. The hitch of Aoba’s breath, a loud gasp that tapers off, and Koujaku’s, “shit, shit, _fuck_ ,” and they both come, hot and heavy and panting, sweat coating their bodies.

This is definitely going to be ones of the hottest fucks they’ve had is the last thing Koujaku thinks of before his mind becomes white noise and static.

That, and that his nose didn’t bleed.

What a successful day.

 

 

\--

 

 

Aoba is aware of a few things.

There’s a weight on top of his chest, suffocating, makes it kind of hard for him to breathe.

There’s something wet and warm making a slow drip down the front of his thighs.

There are continuous puffs of hot air against his neck.

There’s an ache in his ass and said ache is accompanied by a full feeling.

There’s a throb in his hand that’s pinned against the bed.

There’s also the fact that his eyes are closed.

Aoba opens his eyes, hazy, the corner of his eye taken up by a dark figure, and Aoba’s subconscious finally falls into place and realizes that yes; he just briefly passed out with Koujaku on top of him and still inside him with a load of of cum in his panties.

Oh, right, the _panties._

All the of the mortifying embarrassment of them and what he did in them comes rushing back, nearly knocking the air from his lungs, voice dying in his throat.

All of the embarrassment slams into him at once.

_“Oh, god, I’m a pervert,”_ is an incessant noise inside his head.

This was supposed to be the part where everyone is happy and fulfilled in an afterglow that lets all deeds pass and be forgiven, but now, inside his head is a roiling pileup of cars crashing into each other, the kinds in movies where everything is full of death and chaos.

The squawk of his mind is an orchestra reaching a crescendo where all instruments lose focus to a symphony of noise.

It’s dramatic, but Aoba doesn’t know how to give it any other name.

It’s then he remembers that Koujaku is still on top of him, limbs solid with lead and leisure, and Aoba is almost afraid to look at him, not sure if his mortification will ever allow him to look his boyfriend in the eyes. He wants to move, wants to gather himself up and clean away any type of evidence that he’s done this, but with Koujaku’s weight pressing him into the bed, he can’t move, he can’t do much of anything, not really.

The groan from Koujaku’s body pulls him away from whatever internal panic that festers inside him to rot at his walls of sand, pulling away, and that’s when Aoba’s breath slams out of his lungs because of what hovers in front of him.

Koujaku’s hair is a mess, an absolute _wreck_ , his whole mouth bitten red, the glassiness of his eyes a barely there aftertaste of lust and fizzled out energy, and a press of bruises and scratches lining down the sides of his neck and oh, that’s right, Aoba put those there.

In all, his mouth snaps shut and shame and all those nasty negative emotions dissipate in a cloud of dust.

Koujaku sort of squints, looks down, and slowly pushes himself off Aoba, pulling out slowly, carefully, and sits back on his haunches, not without noticing Aoba slight grimace from Koujaku’s softening dick leaving him. Instead of getting up to clean them up like he normally would, he flops back down beside Aoba.

Before Aoba can do much or get out his uneven apology about turning into a pervert and oh _, god,_ he’s turned into a _pervert_ , a dirty, _filthy perv_ —Koujaku’s arms are gathering him up, pulling him into his chest, all the while Aoba protests, squirming and wriggling, trying to escape the hold when Koujaku settles him against this chest, head propped up on top of his own, fingers coming up to play with the beds of Aoba’s sweat-slickened hair.

It’s quiet, save for the still partially-labored breathing both are still in the midst of, and Aoba bites his lip, nervous about what Koujaku is thinking, if his opinion of Aoba has changed because of this, but Koujaku just stays there, nuzzling into his hair, holding him closer, keeps Aoba there as if he’s cuddling some kind of fluffy animal.

“Koujaku?” Aoba tries, surprised that his voice is lethargic but a little irritated that it’s not as strong as he wants it to be.

Koujaku makes a sound, a content, lethargic sound that lets Aoba know that Koujaku’s gonna drift off, like he does after a particularly intense round of fucking, which now that Aoba thinks about it, there’s that sleep-laden feeling twining around his limbs, around his nerves, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing on.

“Kind of sweaty here.”

Koujaku hums again.

“I’ve got… stuff all over me.”

Koujaku hums yet again.

Aoba’s getting a little annoyed.

“Oi, we’re kind of a mess right now.”

Koujaku seems to not really be listening but instead, he laughs, pushing his face into Aoba’s hair again, fingers toying at the ends, and as much as Aoba won’t admit it, as much as he fights and rails and protests against all these touches, this easily-displayed affection, he grudgingly admits inside that he likes it, he likes the feeling of Koujaku’s talented fingers in his hair. There’s no irritation, nothing for his hair to feel like it’s being viciously overstimulated like it used to be, and secretly down in the deep recesses of his mind, he likes it.

“We can clean up later. For now, let’s just stay here.”

“But your sheets—”

“Can be washed, don’t worry, Aoba.”

Aoba huffs, rolling his eyes, and tries to ignore the feeling of his panties wet and clinging to him (that’s also an issue, but like hell he’s going to draw Koujaku’s attention to it) and settles in for Koujaku’s desire to stay wrapped up like this.

“Hey, Aoba?”

Aoba makes an inquisitive noise.

“Thanks for doing that.”

“Don’t talk about it.”

There’s a hand curling around his chin, pushing his face upwards, which Koujaku takes the opportunity to place a small kiss on his lips and then forehead.

“I’m serious. I know you’re not too eager to do those types of things,” Aoba scoffs, “and really, I’m grateful. Thank you.”

Aoba grumbles, not too comfortable at the sentimental tone Koujaku’s voice injects but he’s not going to correct Koujaku or anything. He’ll let him enjoy the moment, the comfort.

“Plus, you looked really sexy,” and there’s that infuriating grin in Koujaku’s voice.

There it is.

“Shut up.”


End file.
